


Apocalypse Dow

by noblet



Category: Fake News RPF
Genre: Angst, GiantMeteor2016, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 02:33:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8648386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblet/pseuds/noblet
Summary: When Stephen hears the news, it feels like he's being punched in the gut.And suddenly he's made of glass, shatters into a million pieces until shards of him are spread on the floor, pointed edges sharp and ugly and dangerous. Somehow, he finds the energy to collect himself, slowly, surely, nicks on his fingertips be damned. He sucks on the blood, and the iron tastes like poison.





	

**Author's Note:**

> In which a meteor is literally hurtling towards the earth.
> 
> (Title comes from this [iconic LSSC video.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X2bg1zfD4_Q)

When Stephen hears the news, it feels like he's being punched in the gut.

And suddenly he's made of glass, shatters into a million pieces until shards of him are spread on the floor, pointed edges sharp and ugly and dangerous. Somehow, he finds the energy to collect himself, slowly, surely, nicks on his fingertips be damned. He sucks on the blood, and the iron tastes like poison. 

He starts thinking about what to do next, but there's nothing to be done, really.

CNN claimed impact would come at midnight, while BBC proposed it closer to three. NASA landed itself in the middle, saying people should prepare for one. Pundits sat around desks, talking for the sake of discussion- all came to the same conclusion.

The world is going to end.

The president gives a speech. Seven billion people hold each other in an attempt to not fall apart. When the news breaks at noon, humanity has twelve hours remaining.

When Stephen calls, Jon picks up the phone on the first ring and his voice brings him back to earth. They make a plan. Jon meets him at their old apartment building.

They start climbing up to the roof at eleven.

"Picnic on the roof?" Stephen says when he notices the bag Jon's shouldering.

He shrugs. "I have a few necessities."

"Never thought it would be this way," Stephen grunts as he pushes the rooftop entrance- barely used- open. "Of all the scenarios- I never thought, never imagined-"

"Whatever happened to the sun enveloping the Earth?" Jon says dryly. Stephen doesn't laugh. They both breathe hard from the stairs.

They find a spot that grants a view to The Statue of Liberty. 

"I feel... weird," Stephen finally decides on the right word once they settle down. "I don't feel sad. I- don't feel anything at all," he says into the open air.

_Liar._

“I think it’s the shock,” Jon says. He pulls out a beer from the bag and hands it to Stephen. He pretends to open it with his front teeth, then, when Jon makes a face, chips the top off on the edge of the barricade they’re leaning on.

“What do you think heaven’s like?” Stephen asks as he stares at the stars. The cold air bites at their faces, but there's no use in complaining.

“Can we not-,” Jon wants to avoid talking about that altogether. There’s no point in discussing something unavoidable, but he knows that’s Stephen’s way of coping with things, so he plays along. “It’s a place on earth with you, I suppose." Stephen nudges him on the shoulder before they both look away to the darkness of the city. 

If they were in different circumstances, Stephen probably would've commented on the cheesiness of Jon's reply. Tonight, he lets it slide.

“We’re all fucked, huh?” Stephen mumbles instead. Jon gulps down his beer until his throat burns.

He nods. “Basically.”

"I think... I'm happy with my life. I know you didn't ask but- I've done the best I could do," Stephen says. His voice drops to a whisper. "I couldn't ask for anything more. It's been good. It's been _great._ " 

Jon looks at him, at Stephen, who's always been able to see the best in the worst, the best in _him_. "Same here," his voice is gritty.

And-

at midnight, they begin to talk about the old days.  _Do you remember,_ Stephen says, then tells a story Jon had long forgotten. They start laughing so hard that they almost forget about everything else. Almost. They work their way up chronologically until a lull cracks the conversation in two and they're pulled back to the rasping present. They don't get to say everything they want to- at this point, they never will. Reality feels like a kick in the teeth.

When the air around them grows still, Stephen's mind begins to scream. _It's the calm before the storm, the calm before the storm, the calm before the storm-_

His hand finds Jon's in the dark, and he settles down just a little.

They have an hour left. 3,600 seconds, 4,800 heartbeats, 1,200 breaths. 1,000,000 thoughts unsaid.

A panic begins to rise in his chest.

Jon doesn't smoke, not anymore, but tonight he pulls a pack from his pocket and hands one to Stephen before placing one between his own lips. Stephen doesn't say anything as Jon produces a lighter as well.

The suffocating sensation the smoke brings seems oddly appropriate, and they take a few drags each before Stephen gives up and stomps his to the ground. "I don't smoke," he mumbles, but Jon's too lost in his own thoughts to hear.

He looks down at his watch.

“Two minutes to one,” Stephen says unceremoniously. 

Jon looks up at the sky. The world doesn’t feel any different.

“I’m scared,” Jon barely whispers. He turns to Stephen, who'd stopped smiling a long time ago.

“Me too,” Stephen says. "Can we-," he starts, pulling closer until they share heat, shoulder's overlapping. Jon smells good, like home, and cheap coffee, and the show, and Stephen thinks  _wow, this could really be it, and-_

"You don't need to ask, Stephen," Jon laughs for the last time. His voice is painfully soft. "We don't have to hide anymore. Who's gonna see us? Who's gonna care?" Their newfound freedom, only hours old, is both a blessing and a curse.

He pulls Stephen's glasses off, and the sensation of rough fingers against his temples may be the single best thing he's ever felt in his life. Stephen takes a deep breath in, ragged and uneven and countered by the weight of a million things they'll never say. But Jon knows, Jon always knows. A million thanks are said through shared looks alone. Jon sets the glasses aside. Stephen leans in.

And-

he's made of glass again, and he's so terrified of breaking, so he kisses Jon slowly, gently, tries his best to not crack. Jon is concrete. The hand he sets on the back of Stephen's neck is an anchor, unmoving, solid. Stephen holds himself together.

They pull apart, and Stephen realizes he's on a verge. There is salt in his mouth.

"Jon-" Stephen manages through tight teeth.

Sixty seconds.

"I'm here," Jon says. 

Stephen thinks about all the people who are alone, of all those that have nobody else to share with their last moments, and realizes he has always been rich in company.

Stephen's fingers find Jon's in the dark one last time- and perhaps that is the final hurrah for their story cut short.

**Author's Note:**

> stop writing sad stuff guys


End file.
